


Boe, Face of (file under "B")

by Hope



Category: Doctor Who, Torchwood
Genre: Crack, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-19
Updated: 2008-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto wonders just where the rest of Boe's body is, if the  face has ended up alone here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boe, Face of (file under "B")

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a ficlet posted via [angstslashhope](http://angstslashhope.livejournal.com/1413008.html#cutid3), for a prompt from greenapple.

As Ianto picks his way through the slushy field, the consistency of the wet muck underfoot changes the further he progresses, going from watery mud to a more gelatinous substance. It coats his shoes, clear and shiny, making obscene noises as he pulls his feet out of its grip with every step.

There are similar sounds coming from behind him, and Ianto doesn't risk taking his eyes off the ground ahead of him as Owen makes a noise of intense disgust. As Ianto's pace slows further, Owen comes around to flank him--now they're practically wading through the viscous fluid that oozes gradually out from its point of origin. The clear semi-liquid holds chunks of what appears to be glass or perspex, and Ianto judiciously avoids touching them.

Owen snaps on his gloves and they both take a couple more slow, ponderous, sucking steps towards the body at the epicentre. At least, Ianto assumes it's a body--it looks sort of fleshy, and appears to have limbs although it's certainly not bipedal. Not that all aliens, or bodies for that matter, _are_ bipedal; of course not. But this mass of wrinkly flesh, draped in limp tendrils, certainly doesn't match any species he can recall filing or reading of in the Archives.

"Looks like it was some sort of tank," Owen says, scowling in concentration and trying to find the path of least slime towards the body. He nods down at the broken pieces of what must have been containing both the creature and its... brine? "Pet?"

Ianto presses his lips together in consideration. "Not exactly cute and cuddly, is it?"

Owen huffs briefly in amusement, but he doesn't look up at Ianto, instead leaning over as he peers closer at the thing--"Oi," he says abruptly. "I think it's still _alive!_"

Ianto sighs, trying not to feel disappointed--it's so much easier to transport and care for a corpse, after all--and struggles through the clear sludge to share Owen's vantage point. The body appears to be not so much a body as a... a _face_, unmistakably and alarmingly human in its features, albeit much too large.

Ianto sees what Owen saw, the mouth twitching a little, the eyelids trembling and screwed shut. Only then the eyes open, and Owen swears and startles, the gooey grip on his feet too tight for him to slip though his body tries.

Ianto can't look away. There's clearly intelligence in the huge eyes, let alone sentience, and Ianto feels at that moment inescapably scrutinised. The rain plastering his sodden hair to his forehead drips down into his eyes and he blinks rapidly.

"_Hello_," the thing says, only its mouth doesn't move, and the voice is in Ianto's head. Even the flutter of nerves that follows that realisation can't extinguish the faint sense of _amusement_ that came bundled with the greeting.

"Bloody hell," Owen mutters, slorping his way around to the other side of the huge head. "I don't even know how to take readings off this thing. Is it hurt? Does it have internal organs or what? If it's conscious now, maybe we can get it to communicate. As long as that doesn't involve any tentacling..."

"Hello," Ianto says back, getting in response another twitch of the mouth and--making Owen swear again--a twitch of a tentacle or two. "We're Torchwood. You appear to have fallen through..."

"_...A rift,_" the voice reverberates through his head again, with yet more amusement. Ianto's not quite sure what's so funny, but finds being awash with such a sensation--and one not his own, at that--mildly exhilarating. "_In space and time._"

The pace of the voice is slow, and by the time it's finished completing Ianto's explanation Owen is looking at Ianto suspiciously. Ianto ignores him.

"Can you read my mind, then?" he asks, mildly uncomfortable and trying to subtly call upon the psychic training given to him so long ago by Torchwood One.

"Oh great, that's all we bloody need..."

"_Not as such._"

Ianto finds himself more than a little relieved. "My name is Ianto Jones," he says, and hesitates, wondering how to breach the next topic. Best go broad, he decides, leave it up for interpretation in order to avoid offence. "And you are...?"

"_The Face of Boe_."

Ianto's brow furrows a little before he can school his expression again. Was that... A species, a name or a body part? The latter seems the most likely, if the fact that the Face seems to be using perfectly good English to communicate has any relation to the physical nature of its species. Ianto wonders just where the rest of Boe's body is, if the face has ended up alone here.

Ianto taps his earpiece, catching the movement of Owen doing the same from the corner of his eye. "Sir."

"_Talk to me, Ianto._"

"Does 'The Face of Boe' mean anything to you?"

There is an extraordinarily long pause; usually by this point Jack will have changed the subject or even made something up to cover his lack of expertise on a particular area.

When the silence continues but for the background hush of the open line, Owen prompts, "Giant tentacled head, lives in an aquarium. Likes it inside Ianto's head. Ringing any bells?"

There's a strangled sort of noise which, if Ianto hadn't heard it before outside of office hours, he might have thought was a line fault.

"_Maybe,_" Jack hazards, then, "_He's alive then? And conscious, I take it?_"

"Yes," Ianto confirms, taking in the pronoun Jack uses for it--him--and filing it away, along with the slightly strained quality of Jack's voice.

"_Good. Well. I don't think you should bring him into the Hub._"

"What? But--" Owen sputters, feet making more slurping noises.

"Sir?"

"_It's the tentacles,_" Jack continues, lying blithely. He affects a cringeworthy estimation of an American attempting a British accent. "_That sort of thing just ain't my bag, baby._"

Ianto scowls despite himself, regretting--not for the first time--that Jack had been provided with the opportunity to see the 'Austin Powers' films.

"_I'm sending Tosh out,_" Jack continues, oblivious to Ianto and Owen's discomfort. Or perhaps not oblivious, but definitely unsympathetic. "_She'll take it from here._"

The connection cuts off. "_Nice suit,_" the Face of Boe remarks, and Ianto's fairly certain that's a tentacle in his pocket.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hope.dreamwidth.org/1383450.html


End file.
